


Hibana

by Xairathan



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:48:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23064235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xairathan/pseuds/Xairathan
Summary: What do you get when you put rolling for the Nobukatsu CE, a competitive streak, and procrastinating on term papers together?Writing gift fic to avoid writing the paper.Disclaimer: I don't know anything about EdoAma beyond like 10 minutes of wiki reading
Relationships: Amakusa Shirou Tokisada | Ruler/Edmond Dantès | Avenger
Kudos: 23





	Hibana

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azure_vermillion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure_vermillion/gifts).



> What do you get when you put rolling for the Nobukatsu CE, a competitive streak, and procrastinating on term papers together?  
> Writing gift fic to avoid writing the paper.  
> Disclaimer: I don't know anything about EdoAma beyond like 10 minutes of wiki reading

Standing at the edge of a river, sword grasped loosely in one hand, it’s almost easy for Amakusa to lose sight of where he is. Only the smell on the breeze gives away the artifice: the air in Chaldea is filtered; it’ll never have the sweet scent of the harvest, nor the hard iron edge that accompanies the close of battle. Amakusa crouches, dragging the tip of his katana through the water, watching the ripples distort his reflection. This, too, is simulated, he thinks— that’s not his actual face staring back up at him—

For a moment, the river fades. A cluster of silver panels glow with smeared light. The simulation is back up in seconds, but it’s too late then; the illusion is broken. Amakusa turns his gaze towards the false sun— squints— hurls one of the Black Keys kept in his _hakama_.

The sun sputters, and a shadow drops from it, landing neatly on the swaying grass. “Now what kind of a greeting is that?” Avenger laughs, twirling the now bladeless knife between spark-laden fingers. “Did you greet everyone you knew back then in this manner?”

“Those who I was close to in the past would know better than to interrupt me in the middle of something,” sighs Amakusa. He doesn’t bother to look at Avenger, simply lifts his hand and catches the Black Key hurled back at his head. “What business do you have that’s so important it couldn’t wait?”

“I saw someone was using the simulator,” Avenger says. “And then I saw that you were inside it, and I just had to poke my head in and see what all this was about.”

“I finished a while ago.” Amakusa tucks the Black Key away, smoothing his robes. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, not at all. I know how well you fight, after all.” Avenger’s grin tilts savagely upwards. “No, I find this-” A spreading of arms- “Much more interesting.”

“You find Japan interesting.”

“I think you know very well what I mean.” Avenger waves a hand, electricity crackling through the air behind it. “Why this place, out of everywhere you could have chosen? Out of all the places you’ve seen, your memories, you decide to make your hometown your battleground-”

“Not all of us have the same inclinations as you, Count of Monte Cristo.”

“Maybe not! Still…” Avenger’s eyes dart from the landscape to the sun, its light cracking gold over his irises. “Coming back to this place, it almost feels as if you’re trying to provoke something out of yourself. Am I wrong? Or do you perhaps feel like trying on the Avenger class for size?”

“This place has more than enough Avengers already.” Amakusa tilts his head, his smile as thin and pointed as his blade. He could be speaking of Chaldea; he could be speaking of the man standing in front of him. “Besides, I don’t think I’d make a very good one. The Dragon Witch had her Servants do her work for her, and you were content to urge your enemies to succumb to their own vices. I’m more the type to do things myself.”

“Yes, your willingness to dirty your own hands was always admirable.” Avenger shrugs, his cloak fluttering around his shoulders. “Which is why you’re here, taking out your frustrations on shadows of your memories, rather than doing something productive with all that anger.”

“I never said it was anger that I was feeling, Avenger.”

“What else could it be? Oh, I’m sorry, is it a particularly righteous flavor today?”

“Just because anger is in your nature, that doesn’t mean it’s as inherent in everyone else.”

“I won’t deny that.” Avenger laughs, a low chuckle like rolling thunder. “But even someone like myself would know that the average range of human emotions deviates wildly from carefully crafted apathy. Even that other Ruler in here smiles more often than you.”

Amakusa doesn’t bother responding to that— there’s little use, he’s learned, in engaging Avenger once he’s started in like this. Around them, the simulator panels shimmer and retract towards the walls, Amakusa’s crafted world crumbling. The silver ceiling has only begun to protrude through gaps in the clouds when the room hums again. Panels flip; the sun slinks towards the far wall, long and angular shadows thrown into Amakusa’s face.

“You’re not one to speak of calling up places from memory, if this is what you intend to do,” Amakusa smirks.

“Do you know where this is?” Avenger shoots back. “You wouldn’t— it’s not somewhere you would remember, even if you’d seen it. This is a street in France. I don’t particularly remember its name, only its shape. It’s just a memory, and nothing more.”

“And what kind of enemy would you intend to fight here?” Amakusa asks, voice laden with disdain. “I can’t imagine anything you’d encounter in this type of setting would offer you much challenge.”

“Indeed,” Avenger says. “But I wouldn’t encounter you in a place like this, would I?”

Amakusa has only those words as warning before Avenger is leaping back, cloak flung wide like wings, vanishing behind one of the many rooftops. Amakusa jumps after him, staggered slightly by the unfamiliar texture of roof tiles beneath the soles of his shoes, rough stucco scraping his palms as he slides down the opposite side. Ahead of him, rapidly gaining distance, Avenger throws his head back and laughs. Now, his voice sings a different note: there’s no malice in its sound, nor mirth, only the simple thrill of a vengeful crusade.

This, as always, is how they meet: if not in the simulator, then trading words like blows over a meal, or shouting barbs as they pass in the halls. It is, for Amakusa, another part of living: entertaining Avenger’s exchanges to quell his rage.

(Never has it occurred to him that Avenger, whose name was made on drawing the flaws of his foes into the open, might be doing the same.)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is Deco*27's Hibana, which fits any ship with even a remote hint of tension


End file.
